by Wendy James
She smiles then, and though it is a small, thin smile it lightens her face to such a degree that I think she is probably not as old as I had first thought her – perhaps not much older than me. She offers out her hand, which is thin, long and freckled and, when I take it, surprisingly strong.
‘I’m Maggie,’ I tell her. ‘Maggie Heffernan.’ And – it is the brandy, I suppose – I smile back. ‘And I’m very pleased to have met you, Miss Beckham.’
Her gentleman companion, Cousin Alfred, returns then with a heap of cold meat and roasted vegetables, which he sets before me. I eat quickly, shovelling the food into my mouth in a coarse and indelicate way, but I am half starved and really cannot control myself. Miss Beckham and her companion leave me to my eating and return when I have finished – Miss Beckham bearing Jack, who is carrying on, he too once more in desperate need of refreshment.
‘Well, Maggie Heffernan,’ says Miss Beckham, when Jack is securely latched on and guzzling away as noisily as you please, ‘I must say I am glad to have been able to help you, and I will be even more pleased if you would let my cousin and me do what we can to assist you further, for it is a fearful thing to be so alone and so in need.’
I am afraid she is going to offer me money, which I cannot accept, so I am quick to make my reply. ‘I’m very grateful for all your help, but it’s my own fault, my own trouble. I’ll sort something out.’
‘Oh, but it’s not just your own trouble, is it?’ Miss Beckham gestures towards Jacky. ‘Once a little one comes along, you cannot but share all your troubles.’
‘I suppose, but how can it be helped?’
‘Well, there are certain … avenues available to you, if you are willing to see them for what they are.’
I can see what she is leading up to, that she will eventually hand me a ticket to some charitable institution or other, along with a lecture on repentance and the need to lead a virtuous life for the sake of my child, but I have no stomach for another home like Mrs Cameron’s, and would be glad if she kept her thoughts on my wickedness to herself. ‘If you are talking about homes and refuges and the like,’ I say, keeping my voice low and pleasant, ‘again I am very grateful, but really there is no need. I am done with such places and would prefer to make my own way.’
‘Oh, no,’ she says, ‘I am quite aware of the subtle torture that lies beneath the mask of compassion in those institutions and I wouldn’t wish to see that inflicted on anyone, and certainly not on such a fine young woman as yourself. No, I am talking of a far more direct form of relief. For both you and the child. A way that you can keep the babe and work. And live.’
Before I can think too much about what she is saying, her companion speaks. ‘Is there really no one – no friends or family,’ he asks quietly, ‘who can help you?’ This is the first time the man has addressed me directly, and I have a proper look at him. He is a queer-looking man – small, but heavy, his eyes little and black and close-set, and with a great mane of dark hair swept back off his forehead. Like the woman he is dressed expensively, yet somehow, though it’s difficult to tell why – he doesn’t seem quite right. There’s nothing obviously amiss – I can see that the fabric of his shirt is good, the cut stylish, and that altogether he is as fashionable as any other city gent, and he has been nothing but polite and considerate towards me, but still there is something about him that disturbs me. ‘Isn’t there anybody,’ he asks again, ‘that you can go to for help?’ His voice is peculiar, too – strangely light and high for such a stout man.
‘No,’ I shrug. ‘It’s just me and the boy. There’s no one else in the world.’
‘And what is it,’ asks Miss Beckham after a pause, ‘that you think you will do? What are your plans? How will you live?’
‘I don’t know. There must be work I can do, and someone to take the babe while I work.’
‘Who can take the babe? You need to be realistic, my dear. How will they feed it? And even if you do manage to farm the baby out to a reputable woman who will do her best to keep the boy alive, do you think you will be able to afford a fee of perhaps 6s a week, as well as your own food and lodging?’
‘I hadn’t thought …’
‘And what sort of life is that for the child, anyway? He’d be better off dead than that – he would be as good as dead to you.’
Suddenly my eyes are stinging, and I look away from him and down at my Jacky who, satisfied now, is drifting off, his eyelids fluttering. There is silence around the table as I pull him off and button my clothes.
‘You realise you are an exceptionally fine-looking girl,’ says the man abruptly. ‘Are you from the country? You have that look about you. Wholesome. Clean. It is not such a common thing to find here in the city – a young girl as healthy-looking as you are, so untouched …’
I am wondering what answer I should make to this compliment, and can think of nothing to say.
‘Have you all your teeth?’
‘All my teeth? Yes.’ At least there is an answer to this question. ‘Why?’
They look at one another and the man nods.
‘We have a proposal to make, an offer of assistance,’ Miss Beckham says. ‘From what you’ve told us of your circumstances, you really may have found yourself in a position where you will be forced to consider … alternatives that once you never even imagined, much less discussed.
‘You are no longer a respectable woman, Maggie, dear. In giving birth to a bastard, as innocent as you or the child may be, you have sunk as low as a woman can. You cannot sink any further in the eyes of the church and society. You are marked, branded as the worst of women – corrupt, depraved, godless. There is nowhere to turn, no way of reclaiming your former position. Even if you were willing to take the path of penitence and self-sacrifice recommended by your charitable friends – and you have said that you are not – even then, there is no guarantee that your life could ever be anything more than the most soul-destroying hardship and toil. And all for … what?
‘If you don’t dismiss what I am about to suggest to you without proper reflection, Alfred and I can give you the chance to regain a respectable livelihood, to give your child opportunities that right now you can only dream of, and a chance not to fall into the life of squalor and misery that you no doubt see before you. We can give you a way out.’
She pauses again, as if waiting for my response, but I am that uncertain what it is she is talking about that I cannot think what to say. So I say nothing, nod and smile, which she must take as an indication of my interest – as encouragement – because she continues.
‘What we are proposing is not a life of degradation and vice – quite the opposite. Our establishment is very comfortable, with only the most distinguished of clientele permitted entry. And, if you’ll beg my pardon for my boldness, I think you would find that your air of innocence would prove to be of great benefit to you, would ensure your success. And the child wouldn’t be a trouble. When he’s not sleeping, there will be numerous good women to act as his nurse.’
The man, who has sat saying nothing, but has watched me closely all the while, now speaks up, ‘And you being – if you’ll excuse me saying so – as fetching as you are, it’s certainly not out of the question that if you play your cards right you may succeed in tickling the fancy of certain gentlemen. I’ve seen it happen, believe me: girls set up in their own little apartments and cottages, with a generous allowance and a life of comfort and ease far beyond your imagination. You’d be surprised to learn where some of our so-called society women have met their husbands, my dear. They’re not all as top-drawer as they’d have us think, and I know that for a fact.’
All at once these people – their kindness, their inquiries as to my health and my circumstances, their comments on my looks, their fashionable clothes and their not-quite-real gentility – make perfect, terrifying sense. They must see it in my face, my sudden understanding of them, for the woman reaches across the table and clasps my hand in hers.
‘Oh, Maggie. My dear,
dear Maggie,’ she pleads. ‘I can see you are shocked, but truly, what we’re suggesting is not as terrible as you think. Once I was in the very same situation as you are, but I did not make the decision that could have saved my baby’s life. I sent him out to board and took a position as a wet nurse and while the infant I fed grew fat on my milk, my own wee darling withered away. He didn’t survive three months. And then, then I wished I were dead myself. If I had been given your opportunity my little Bertie – and a bonny, sweet boy he was, God rest his soul – would be alive today.’
I am speechless and, though I desire it, powerless to stop her from continuing.
‘I can see that you are an innocent – a good girl who has been badly used – but you must believe me, a loss of innocence does not necessarily mean an absence of goodness, or the existence of evil. Is it an evil thing to do what you can to ensure the life of your child? Even though most would consider what I do to be immoral, how much more immoral is a society that allows a child to perish simply because its father acts dishonourably.’
I pull my hand from the woman’s grip and push back my chair, stand up. My legs are shaking. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you very much for your help and for the meal. It was kind of you, but I have to go now.’
‘Oh, Maggie. It isn’t so terrible, truly there are far, far worse things. Does it seem to you that I look as if I live a bad life? Do I seem ill-used, careworn, in ill-health? I am subjected to nothing, nothing that is harmful, and nor are any of my girls. Oh, my love,’ she says, ‘don’t look at me so. Do not judge, you cannot, you ought not.’
I hold Jacky close, fix my eyes on the door and walk as fast as I can.
‘Oh, please, don’t run away. Think of your child, if you cannot think of yourself.’
‘What we are suggesting is nothing,’ the man mutters darkly, as I pass through the door and into the brightly lit hall. ‘Nothing. Far worse can happen.’
Far worse.
I have a baby, two shillings, no reputation and nowhere to go, but even so I cannot imagine what far worse might be.
II
Hawthorn, Melbourne
20 January, 1900
I have been expecting him to come sooner, but the detective doesn’t return until Sunday evening. The boy has just left off feeding and it should be a while before I’m needed again, so I have begged paper and ink from the housekeeper and started another letter. I get no further than ‘Dear Jack,’ when the missus knocks on my door. ‘You’re wanted again, Maggie. There’s two of them this time. A sergeant as well,’ she says. She waits for me to say something, for some reaction, but I make my face as blank as I can and say nothing. ‘They’re waiting for you in the back drawing room,’ she says. ‘And would you please attend me in the parlour as soon as they go.’
‘I should have known better,’ I hear her mutter as I leave the room. ‘Always trouble …’
The two officers stay seated when I enter the room, and neither of them smiles. Constable Murray beckons me to a seat and this time I am glad of it and take the one directly opposite him. The sergeant, a black-haired man with a walrus moustache and a solemn expression, does all the talking, while Constable Murray scribbles away with his little bitty pencil.
‘Miss Heffernan,’ he says softly, ‘the story you told Constable Murray – about you and Mrs Hardy and your child having stayed at Allen’s Hotel at Wangaratta – it’s not true, is it?’
‘Yes. I mean … no. We stayed at the station. Not at Allen’s.’
‘You stayed at the station? What station?’
‘The railway station.’
‘You stayed at the station-master’s place?’
‘No. We slept in a paddock behind the station.’
‘You slept in a paddock – with a newborn baby!’
‘Well, it was a warm night.’
‘Miss Heffernan, we have ascertained that there is no 204 King Street. And no Mrs Hardy.’
‘Oh no, there is, there must be – else where has she taken him? Maybe I got the address confused – should I check? Perhaps it was Queen Street. Yes, 204 Queen Street, that’s it.’
‘Miss Heffernan, Margaret, there’s no use telling us any more lies. The child found in the Yarra is your boy, isn’t he?’
I say nothing.
‘Speak the truth,’ he says. ‘Speak the truth and fear nothing.’
I am tired and the man’s voice is soothing and his questions are gentle and not so difficult to answer. So I speak the truth and in the end – when he tells me he must formally charge me with the murder of the infant Jack Hardy Heffernan – in the end, there is nothing left for me to fear.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary
1 January, 1900
Read over this year’s diary entries. Hard to imagine that life can contain so much change in such a short period of time. Am glad I have this record of my life – of no interest to anyone else, but it’s gone so quickly and much would otherwise be forgotten. This diary is the one place where, though there is no one to listen, I need not be silent.
6 January
Vida has made inquiries of several of the private schools here. Seems none have need of an additional teacher, and taking a position as a governess on some isolated property is less than appealing. Here, I may be a poor relation, but at least I have that connection. Also physical comfort. And a degree of kindness.
To be required to move, to make a new start again, and then again … Oh, I feel ill at the prospect.
12 January
There was some ruckus in the kitchen – Alice’s son is in some sort of trouble again, so she is quite mad with worry and incapable of boiling water let alone preparing a meal for four. New housemaid quite useless for anything more taxing than peeling and scrubbing, so I offered my services, sent Alice to bed with a poultice, and did a creditable job of the three courses. (If teaching work cannot be found soon, perhaps I should consider a housekeeping ‘career’. I’m sure Alice would provide a good reference!)
I even managed to look presentable for dinner. (‘Your looks vastly improve with colour,’ comments James. ‘You girls should make time to exercise more.’) Flattered – haven’t been called a ‘girl’ in quite some time.
15 January
A letter from Robert. He and his (dreadful! Selfish!) Miss Edwards have parted. He is terribly melancholy – says his heart has been broken – but I do have to wonder how much pain he is really in. He is positive that his heartbreak will provide ‘excellent grist for his mill’, that is, matter for his writing. Such cool-headedness! Perhaps, though I won’t suggest it, he is suffering merely a ‘sprain’, and not a ‘break’.
16 January
Pondering Robbie’s suggestion in his letter that I try my hand at writing – for the theatre. He says, ‘It cannot be money worries that deter you from such a course – your income will always allow you to doss down somewhere, even if it is not completely respectable, and it is always possible to eat cheaply.’ But if I wanted to write for any sort of an audience (beyond myself & Rob), which is something I have in fact no desire to do, how could I? It is not merely the obvious requirements of shelter and sustenance that would deter one. A respectable single woman cannot just ‘doss down somewhere’ while she writes, not if she wants to remain respectable. Truly, it is remarkable that a brother should understand so little about the brute realities of his sister’s existence.
Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
25 January
I’m so pleased to hear that you have decided to remove to New York, Robbie. I think it a wise decision to go as far as possible from the source of your unhappiness. I’m sure a broken heart can be more effectively healed when the ‘breaker’ (& the accompanying chorus of gossip) does not have to be met with at every social gathering … And now, surely, with secure, less strenuous employment, and no social responsibilities (why, you can become a hermit if you wish Rob!) you’ll have a marvellous opportunity to get your
novel finished.
Yes, I know I sound cold-hearted, dear, but truly I am SEETHING with anger at your ‘beloved’s’ selfishness. To insist that you make a choice between her or your writing! Why, ’tis monstrous, Rob – and I must conclude that SHE is equally monstrous, whatever you tell me to the contrary. James’s rather brutal opinion (you will understand that I have had to confide in someone) is that YOU are well out of it, and I have to say that in this instance I am in complete agreement. She is not worth any pain, my love.
At your request I have continued to transcribe our ‘Salon’ conversations, but, no, I have no intention of ‘doing’ anything with my prodigious literary talent, as you so kindly suggest. These transcriptions are by way of an exercise. Though what it is that I am exercising & to what purpose, I really cannot quite explain. I listen and watch, and then while the memory is quite fresh – generally when I have retired – write out in shorthand all that I recall. When I come to translate my scribbles, and here a little typing practice is achieved, there is always a small degree of shaping and tidying involved. But only a little, rather like trimming a hedge. So you see: I am keeping my memory sharp, practising my shorthand & typing – & in addition amusing you.
I am pleased to hear that although I’m providing you with ‘wonderful insights’ into ‘particular types’, you have no intention of reproducing them in any recognisable way in your novel. I confess I go quite weak at the knees at the thought of these ‘particular types’ finding themselves at your creative mercy. As to my own ‘creative licence’, well, that’s neither here nor there, these transcripts being as honest as the day is long.